


It's okay, we're right here

by DeafGirlWalking



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Depression, Firewhiskey (Harry Potter), Polyamory, Psychological Trauma, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, depictions of alcohol use, i promise they'll get better, literally how could you pretend they didn't, the trio has psychological trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24140641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeafGirlWalking/pseuds/DeafGirlWalking
Summary: In which, in the aftermath of Malfoy Manor and their other assorted War-related trauma, the Trio attempt to recover together.Includes implication of romantic relationships between all members of the Trio, but no sexual content.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 21
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter One - Hermione

**Author's Note:**

> Hi welcome! I'm still pretty new to fanfiction and I've never written for this fandom but I had an idea that wouldn't get out of my brain, so here we are!

As Hermione’s eyes bat open, she’s hit by the one-two punch of the smell and sound of the ocean, wafting through an open window in the wall across from her bed. Groggily, still half in a dream, she pulls herself up into an uneasy sitting position, struck immediately by the tight, sore cramping in her abdomen. 

“Ah, Merlin.” Her throat rasps uneasily, and she freezes, surprised immediately by how thirsty she is. Her throat feels raw, as though she had been shouting. Eyes still blurry with sleep, she lets her bare feet press against the cool, firm floorboards. The floor seems to wobble beneath her, and she finds herself grasping the doorway of the bathroom as soon as it comes in reach. 

She’s dizzy, unsteady, and it takes both hands to hold herself upright. Her legs ache, far off and somehow distant from the rest of her. Like the numbing agents her parents could administer, she was aware of her legs, but at the same time could hardly sense them at all. As she slowly wakes up, standing in the darkened, unfamiliar bathroom, she realizes that her whole body aches in that same detached manner. And she increasingly is aware that she has no idea where she is.

Something must have happened to her, to them….

“Harry…?” She looks down, pale feet against paler tiles in the bathroom floor, and is surprised by the mass of bruising on her lower legs, the shredded remains of her shirt, her trousers missing, discarded somewhere. Her voice shakes. Where is she? What happened? Where are they, where is the tent and the woods?

There’s no response. She calls out again, her raw voice hardly carrying. “Ron?” 

Eyes wide in the bathroom mirror, she takes in the harsh cut against her throat, the streaks of blood and dirt across her face. Clean skin, a few shades paler than usual, peeks through in uneven patches. Someone has cleaned her face, but done a poor job at it, as though a beginner was trying to work the spell, hands shaking with nerves. Arms a mess of half-healed cuts, bruises along her jaw. Her muscles are clenching, beginning to spasm deep within her. There is dirt under her nails, dirt from the gravesite.

_Oh god, Dobby…_

Like a key slipping into a lock, like a skipping stone turning over in her hand, it comes back to her in a myriad of sharp flashes that she was in no way ready for. Dobby. Luna. 

_Bellatrix._

As though summoned, called to class, the aches deep in her body begin in earnest, springing from some deep place in her bones, burning hot against her skin. It isn’t far away and numb anymore, it is close, as close as though it was all happening again, as though she was still lying upon that floor in Malfoy manner, sucking in air, wrung out like a used dishtowel. Her legs fold, and she finds herself curled up on the floor of the bathroom, head pressed against the chilling porcelain of the loo. 

Somewhere outside the window and yet so far away, Bellatrix laughs, and she presses herself tighter against the floor, grinding already sore shoulders and knees against the unforgiving surface, fingers pricking on the pieces of glass still lost in her tangled hair. 

Where is she? Why is she here?

_Ron….Harry! Oh god, Harry!_

The burial. That numb tingling feeling where nothing’s quite real, like a bad dream, settling upon her and numbing her to the reality long enough to keep herself upright. Waking up in an unfamiliar house, Fleur and Bill, Ron’s face, worried. Telling Fleur she had to go, had to be there. Bill looking at her, sadness and concern evident on his scarred face. Ron’s socks and Luna’s soft words and the softer blanket Fleur had given her, let her wrap herself in. And then sore legs, but at a distance, something about shock, bid to go back to bed, promises of potions later. Dobby, dear Dobby…Dean…Ollivander? And Luna…

Bellatrix.

She jams her fingers against her ears, her eyes, her mouth, head forward and slamming against the loo, the stinking, ruined remains of her shirt still on her, holding them closer and closer to her skin, Merlin why hadn’t she changed? Why was she still here?

“Ron!” she tries to call out, her voice a harsh stifled whisper, no power left to carry. She screamed herself hoarse, she remembers now. She screamed and screamed and begged for it to stop. She feels as though something deep in her ripped, shredded, and may never come back into one piece. She has to find them, where are they, did they leave? How long had it been? “Harry!” Broken now, beginning to sob, tremulous and wavering.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, eyes screwed shut, struggling to breathe against the waves of increasing burning, the wrenched pull of muscles against near-broken bones. The tears that streamed endlessly down her face, carving clear tracts in the dirt. Blood drew from her lip, from her tongue and she bit, clenched, muffled the screaming that still boiled out like an aftershock. Her teeth, the orbits of her eyes, pounding with every beat of her heart until she was sure she couldn’t stand it, sure she’d crawl all the way back to the Manor, lie down on those floorboards and beg for something swift and beautifully merciful to do it, knock her brains out against the stone floor.

She’d take it, it would be a mercy. She’d beg for it even. But where are they?

Then there are voices.

“I thought I heard –” sweet, flutelike.

“Okay Luna, thanks…” footsteps coming closer. 

“Yeah, thanks Luna, we’ll check on her.” Harry’s voice is second, slightly closer, and if she could manage to roll over, manage to breathe, she is sure she could see him as he pushes open the door to her room. “Hermione—”

“Hermione, where-“

She lets out a low whine, a small sound not unlike an injured dog, and she can feel them pivot, look in her direction. 

“Oh Merlin, Hermione…” Someone’s hand, warm against her shoulder, she’s not sure who, it’s all happening too fast. Voice desperate in her ear. “Harry, she’s -- Hey Hermione, ‘Mione…you okay?”

It’s Ron, who else would call her that…they had both lapsed into it in moments, and while she’d allow it in private it wasn’t to become too much of a habit. They’d both do it, though he’d always do it more.

Of course it’s Ron, she knew it was and yet she still slinks back, forehead snapping forward painfully against the loo, feet flailing out, one connecting with something solid, solid and warm. 

“Blimey, Hermione it’s us, it’s us!” The strong hands, gathering her up and pulling her into a sitting position, pulling her to him until the seared skin of her back made contact with the front of his shirt. “You’re safe. It’s us. Hey…hey…”

She rests her head on her shoulder, exhausted by her own efforts and desperately trying to pull air into her lungs. Ron runs his hand against her hair almost automatically, picking out the shards of glass her own fingers had been unwilling to grasp. The boys speak over her head, far away and almost underwater. They’re talking about her, and she should hate that, but she doesn’t have the energy.

“Is she—”

“I don’t…I didn’t see her when she woke up, Fleur said she barely said anything….some kind of shock. Like she wasn’t fully awake.”

“Should we get something? I mean…the Longbottoms…” Harry’s voice is pre-Quidditch-game high, tense, the whisper she knows from late-night planning, from scared little children in grown-up fights.

Ron seems to pull, tense against her as though he’s been struck. His arms tighten on her, almost painfully over the bruises, she’d push him off but she doesn’t have the strength. He’s solid, he feels real in the strange underwater world. Ron’s voice sounds equally young, equally unsure, though his voice resonates deep in his chest and travels to her ear. “She wanted to be with you for Dobby but Fleur says other than that…But she knew she wanted to be with you for Dobby. Harry, she knew.”

Harry is in front of her now, his skinny limbs bunched into the tiny space afforded between her and the bathtub. She can see him through her tears, dark shock of hair and pale, worried face. “Hermione?”

“H-harry…” And then, not wanting him to feel left out, he always felt so left out. “Ron.”

Like one unit, Ron breathes warm and relieved into her ear and Harry’s face, still pale and tense, breaks out into a smile. “Hey…you’re okay.” Harry takes her hand. “You’re okay…you’re safe, we’re at Shell Cottage with Fleur and Bill.”

“Harry….Dobby, I’m so sorr-“ tears overwhelm her, her voice splinters and breaks. She shakes, trembles, rattles. The effort makes her head pound, her eyes threaten to explode as she digs through her mind for the words that normally spring forth so easily. They’ve abandoned her now. “He-“

“Hey, easy. Fleur says you gotta take it easy, you need to relax.” Ron’s voice in her ear, his arm wrapped around torso and holding her upright, keeping her against him. He’s the only thing keeping her upright, keeping her from tipping backwards against the floor. 

“Yeah, listen to Ron.” Harry’s smile is forced, but he looks her steadily in the eyes. They’re green and bloodshot, he’s been crying and the thought makes her want to join in with sympathy. “Dobby…Dobby’s…he’s free and…he was a hero.”

She nods, sinks back against Ron. They’re quiet for a moment, Harry rubs her hand with his own. She’s grateful, content to sit quietly in their company, listening to the two of them occasionally exchange words. She feels herself beginning to drop off to sleep, but then she stiffens as it all comes in waves again. Her muscles clench and her bones burn and she pulls, weak but desperate, against Harry’s hand, trying to slam palm back against forehead, drive herself fully into the blackness where they can’t get her, no one can get her. Harry squeezes in response and doesn’t let go. Ron has her other hand pinned, trapped between her and his side, and she feels the gentle pressure of him trying to hold her steady.

The gagging, choking sound she makes is terrible and fills the room. She hates it but doesn’t know how to make it stop, can barely get enough air just to breathe. The muscle spasms threaten to rattle her loose and she wants to beg them to make it stop, to do whatever it takes to make it stop.

“Hermione?” Ron, urgent.

She moves her tongue in her mouth, teeth still clenched, but no words come. Wrenching her hand from Harry’s, she goes to slam it against her temple. Harry, all quick Seeker reflexes, snatches her hand back before she can make contact a second time.

“Hermione, you need to breathe. Hey.” Harry wrestles her arm down, he’s so much stronger than she but he’s gentle. “Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself, come on, breathe.”

“What is she-“

“Ron, she’s in pain.” His eyes are big, huge, and their faces are so close together that she can almost touch her nose to his. “Hermione, what hurts? Can you tell us what hurts?”

“Everything…” her stomach rolls but is luckily too empty to heave. She gives another great shudder, it’s involuntary and her muscles quake. They can hear how short of breath she is, she wonders if they can hear her heart threatening to split in half, threatening to explode. If they can hear the fire in her brain. “It burns…I can’t--”

Ron sounds louder, desperate now. “Harry, could you get---”

“On it.” Harry stands up in one awkward movement, giving her hand one last squeeze. “Hermione, try to take some deep breaths, I’m going to be right back with Fleur, okay?”

She doesn’t want to let go, grabs at his hand, his wrist. She might not get him back if she leaves, she doesn’t know where he’ll go in this unfamiliar house. “Harry!”

“I’ll be right back, Ron’s going to stay right here with you, we need to get you some potions to help-“

“Could you get her clothing? Her bag was in her sock, it’s down by the couch. I think she’d feel better.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course…Okay Hermione, I’ll be right back.” 

And then he is gone, leaving the two of them sitting on the bathroom floor, the smell of him keeping her grounded, keeping her from completely going to pieces. Ron holds her a little tighter as she tries to turn her neck to look at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she whispers in response, rewarded as a smile cracks his long face. His eyes are wet, he had been crying. “Ron…”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

“Hurts…” her voice is small, pitiful, and for a second she lights up hot with embarrassment, where’s her Gryffindor courage now, but he pulls her closer, so gently against his shoulder. 

“I know, shh, it’s okay. Fleur’s got stuff for you and we’re going to take it easy until you’re better.” She feels his chin rest on the top of her head. They are quiet for a moment, she thinks she can hear Harry somewhere, down the hall. 

The chills start again, she lets out a whimper and pulls her knees to her chest, the bruises and scratches upon her legs now more visible than ever before. She doesn’t know where her trousers are, and she’s dirty. She’s dirty. She stinks.

And she can’t stop hearing her voice.

Ron tightens his hold on her as she stiffens, looking around for the source of the sound that won’t stop echoing in her head. The hand on the side of her face tilts her head back gently, encouraging her to keep it on his shoulder. “Hey, you’re safe. No one’s out there, we’re at Bill’s cottage. We’ve got you.”

Wheezing out between tight gasps of air, bruising her ribs as she tries to convey what it is she’s hearing. “Bellatrix…”

Ron freezes, and then turns her slightly to look at him. His face is intense, deadly serious, and he’s searching her with his eyes, looking for something in her face. “Hermione, she’s not here. Are you hearing her? She’s not here.”

“They…I’m filthy.” She reaches up, pressing her hands against her face, tearing her nails aggressively against her skin until he pries her hands back away. She wants to tear herself out, get rid of anything that smells of them, any part of her that was touched, that was looked at. But Ron won’t let her.

“No! No…You’ll hurt yourself, hold still…”

She goes still, breathing heavy as she slumps back into him and closes her eyes, listening to the pounding of his heartbeat. She can feel his hand, still keeping her own safely out of range, rubbing his thumb against the top of her hand.

“It’s okay Hermione, we’re here, just hold still.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“—had to help Fleur, she’s just finishing up the potions, how is she?”

Harry’s back. She works her tongue heavily in her mouth, trying to swallow.

“She might be out again. She said she heard…that she hears Bellatrix. And that she’s dirty. Harry, she tried to hurt herself…” 

“Okay. Okay.” Harry’s voice shakes. “Well, here’s her clothes, you’re right, she’ll feel better if she changes out of that. Should I get Luna? She’s downstairs.”

“Yeah…that might be a good-“

“No.” She shakes her head, cracking her eyes open. 

Harry is behind her, shadow cast over her and onto the bathtub. She knows him well enough to see his confusion in it. “Are you sure? You might need-“

She nods. “Help me.”

Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t want this, but it hasn’t been normal circumstances for months. Under normal circumstances she never would have needed to slice Harry’s shirt open to get the locket off, scared of him waking up but more scared that he never would. She normally never would have learned to hardly blush when she saw Ron changing in the tent, shirt off, back to her in the light of the lantern. They are so far past that precipice. If it has to be anyone, it should be them.

Neither of them have moved, frozen in trying to do the right thing, so she tries to turn her head around to look at them both. Her neck is wrenched and she can’t quite make it, but it’s enough to get her point across. “Please.”

She can feel them exchanging looks over her head, and then they come to a consensus. “Okay, let’s get you up. Harry, come over to the other side?” Ron’s hands are in her armpits, gentle but she still burns under the pressure of his skin and feels like she’s splitting open as she tries to get her feet under her. Bile rushes up into her mouth and she gags, wobbles, begins to collapse. 

Blackness rushes forward, and when her vision clears she’s sat upon the loo, Harry’s crouched in front of her. His hand is cold against the side of her head, she feels sweaty, feverish. 

“Hey, okay…” he glances up at Ron. “She’s really warm.”

“Might be the curse.” Ron’s hand is against her back, square between her shoulders. “Hermione, can you lift your shirt up?”

She tries to raise her arm to her side and makes a quiet screaming sound, harsh against her raw throat, stifled by her gritted teeth. Her arms shake, her own weight too heavy, and her hands turn to fists with the concentration of staying conscious. It’s hard, no, it’s practically impossible to breathe and she leans forward into Harry, head pressed into his chest as she shakes.

“Hermione?”

She lets out a whimper in response. Harry’s hands go automatically to either side of her head, the coolness is comforting and she leans into them and breathes.

“Hermione, uh….I’m going to try to help, okay?” She feels Ron move his hand hesitantly along her back. It’s strange to feel him against her skin like this, they’ve never had to do anything like this and she’s embarrassed, horrified that she’s making this happen. There’s so much they still need to discuss. “Um, maybe…I guess I could tear it…?”

“I’m sorry…” she mumbles.

“Hey, no, none of that! _I’m_ sorry.” Harry replies firmly. Then, to Ron, “she was apologizing.”

“Don’t go apologizing, Hermione. You have nothing to apologize for, this isn’t your fault.”

She tries to shake her head, but it’s too much work. It’s easier to just sit there and let them talk, let Harry hold her up, her consciousness ebbing and flowing like the ocean outside the window. 

“-what is ‘appening?” 

“She wanted to change her clothes, they…they smell and it was upsetting her but she can’t move without crying out Fleur and I don’t know…” Ron sounds choked up.

“No, Ronald, its okay, it was a good idea…I can see how ze … smells would upset ‘Ermione.” She can hear Fleur rustling around, the sound of fabric moving. “But eh….a nightgown….might be easier for ‘er.” 

She can feel the air moving now, they managed to get the remains of that shirt off and Ron’s hand against her spine feels cool, blissfully cool. For a second she’s horrified again that she’s in her bra, that they’re seeing her like this, but then she shudders and forgets what it was she was thinking about. So much has happened. So many terrible things.

“Okay, that…the nightgown sounds good…” Ron’s voice trembles.

“Is she…awake? ‘Arry?”

“I don’t know…she goes in and out…she keeps closing her eyes.” Harry lifts her face up. “Hermione, can you open your eyes?”

Her eyes feel leaden, heavy, but then they’re open and all three faces are in hers, looking at her with concern.

“’Ermione, I ‘ave a nightgown for you if you’d like to wear eet?”

She thinks she nods, or maybe she just lets her head droop back into Harry’s hands. Either way, it’s taken as confirmation, and Fleur’s issuing commands, pulling the gown over her head and carefully leading her arms through. 

“’Ermione, can you stand?”

She doesn’t reply, her eyes are closed and she can feel herself sinking deeper into the darkness even as they try to get her up. It’s a relief, really, to let it happen. She’s tried for so long to hold onto all of it, all of them, and keep it all in one piece. She feels Harry brushing her hair back out of her face, saying something, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing can hurt her right now.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her face feels cool, and she opens her eyes to Fleur, wiping across her face with a cool cloth. Fleur smiles, worried but beautiful as ever. It’s comforting, and Hermione’s ashamed that she once disliked that smile.

“’Ermione, you erm…passed out? I ‘ave some potions I need you to drink.”

“Ron…? Harry?”

“Right here, Hermione.” His voice is near the foot of the bed…she’s on the bed, somehow, she doesn’t remember being on the bed before. Ron moves, and she sees him blurrily come into view. His face is pale, his freckles standing out. He looks terrified, but smiles when their eyes meet. “Harry’s here too.”

“Yeah, right here, Hermione. Go ahead and drink your potions.” Harry stands as well, she can see both of them and now she can breathe.

She lets Fleur sit her up a little, Ron comes up to the head of the bed and wraps one arm around her shoulders to help her sit up and she drinks one, two, three potions, not even stopping to ask what she’s being given. She hardly tastes them, grateful for liquid in her parched throat. Fleur wipes her face again, the cloth comes away with all the sweat and blood and grime and now she’s finally clean. The nightgown is crisp and cool against her scalded skin. She’s clean, everyone’s okay. Her tongue feels numb, her brain is finally beginning to slow it’s spinning. The last potion was purple, familiar, a staple in the hospital wing, though the mechanisms of her brain are slow to place it..

_Ah, sleeping draught._

Her stomach rolls, and for a second she thinks she’ll vomit, but after a few sips of water it seems ready to settle down.

“And that’ll help with the curse?” Ron asks anxiously.

“It’ll ‘elp her rest, and deal with zee pain. I think she needs more ‘elp zan I can give ‘er. I don’t know much about zee curse…. I sent an owl to a friend ‘o should be able to ‘elp me.” She looks at Ron. “I was discrete.”

“Thank you Fleur, really….thank you.” Harry whispers.

Fleur nods, and looks back to Hermione. “That’s all for now, I’ll ‘ave more for you later. Now, we’ll leave you so you can get some rest.” To Harry and Ron she adds, “we can set up a bed for you on the couch.”

“No.” It’s a cracked whisper, but it comes out with more power than she had anticipated. She looks at Ron. “Don’t go. Harry…”

Fleur smiles gently, and takes Hermione’s hand. “ Okay, up to you. But do sleep. You all need eet.”

Hermione squeezes back. “Thank-“

“None needed, ‘Ermione. I’ll check in later. Sleep.” And with that command, she sets Hermione’s hand back to the bed. Fleur leaves them, and for a second the three of them just look at each other.

Harry swallows, uncomfortable, before finally speaking. His voice is slow and halting in the way it always is when he has to say something he doesn’t want to say. “Hermione…you…I don’t know what happened, you passed out or you had some kind of fit – it was really…”

“It was bloody terrifying,” Ron finishes for him. He’s still helping her sit up, she can feel him tense as he says it, and she finds herself tangling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold him close. It feels important that he be close, that they be close. He leans his head against hers, just for a moment. “Harry caught you but Merlin…we didn’t…”

Another long pause where they collectively try to breathe.

Harry sits back down on the bed by her feet, putting one hand on one of her ankles. The pressure is reassuring, and she can feel his fingers tense and flex, as though he’s reminding himself that she’s real, that’s she’s really here. “Hermione, you should get some rest. That’s really important right now.”

She nods, already starting to get drowsy. Ron shifts to accommodate her. The potion’s strong, and she feels like she hasn’t slept in weeks and she wants nothing more than to just close her eyes and let go of everything, but she can’t sleep without knowing they’ll be okay while she’s gone, that they’ll be there when she wakes up. “Don’t go.”

“We won’t go, it’s okay.” Ron helps her lie down, trying to pull back the covers on the bed without disturbing her. “You’ll just get some sleep, we’ll stay nearby.”

Harry comes to help with the sheets, and she manages to reach out, grabbing his elbow. He puts his hand over hers, she can feel his quidditch callouses, still prominent even after a year. She searches his face for something, and he smiles at her, face still white with concern. “Hey Hermione, it’s okay, we’re right here.”

They both look so tired, almost as tired as she feels. Her voice cracks, wheezes. “Lie down.”

They stop, look at her, confused.

“Both…please. Lie down.” She trembles. “I need…” She can’t quite finish the sentence, she’s not sure exactly what she needs.

There’s a pause, her words seem to hang in the air for a moment, suspended by everything that has happened. They all look at each other, and then Ron moves first, kicking his shoes off. Harry’s a little slower, uncertain, but he follows Ron’s lead.

“I guess I’ll…” Harry motions to the other side of the bed.

“Yeah, er…Hermione can be in the middle…Here, Harry, hand me your glasses, I’ll put them here on the table….”

She hears them shuffle for a few minutes, closing her eyes with relief as she listens to them. The noises of them, the sound of their quiet voices, is as a good as a lullaby right now. They’re alive and nearby, and that’s all she needs.

“Is she asleep?” Harry’s gone around to the other side of the bed.

“I don’t know. I think she needs to know we’re close by right now. Honestly, mate…I don’t want to leave her, not after –”

“No, I get it, me either.” And then smaller, more uncertain. “…do you think she be okay? God, Ron, I’m so sorry, I never should have said it-“

“Harry.” The mattress dips down on one side under Ron’s weight. “Please just lie down. It’s my fault as much as—”

She lets out a grunt of annoyance, eyes still closed, and her fingers make contact with the back of Ron’s shirt with one hand. With her other, she reaches out for Harry, finally making contact with his hand. He grips her fingers gently and settles onto his side of the bed without letting go.

She stiffens a little at the movement, it jolts through her painfully and her breath goes ragged for a second. Ron rolls over in the bed and takes her other hand. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Harry echoes him, she can feel his warm breath against the back of her neck. “It’s okay, Hermione. We’re right here, go to sleep.”

It is okay, finally, and she falls asleep.


	2. Chapter Two - Ron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, I'm back with some more of this idea. Wanted to play around with altering perspectives.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who gives it a read!

Sometime in the days or weeks that followed the Department of Mystery, Harry had told Ron all about what had happened after he got hit with the brains. Ron had listened with rapt attention, trying to visualize every detail, until he got to the part where Hermione had crumpled, motionless, after being struck with the curse. In his mind’s eye he could see Harry, crouched over Hermione, sure that he had gotten her killed, sure that she was—

All he could think was _let that not be me, let that never happen to us-_

It had nearly been him, but not quite. He was lucky, in a twisted, horrible way. When he had landed on the beach, Hermione in his arms, he knew she was alive. But he didn’t know how bad it was, how much time she had. She was shivering, bleeding from the small nicks where the chandelier had cut her. He looked down into her face for one second, at her tightly-closed eyes, the dirt and blood smeared across her face, and began to run towards the cottage. 

Fleur had had him set her down, had him help for a moment, had him cast an unwieldly cleaning charm and clean up the worst of the glass, but then sent him to be with Harry. They were both surprised when Hermione came, wobbling, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket to be with them for the funeral. She had leaned into him, hot to the touch and white in the face. By the end of the ceremony he was practically holding her upright, her eyes were unfocused, and he left Harry in privacy and gently led Hermione back to Fleur.

“She’s in shock,” Fleur had told him as they both helped Hermione upstairs. “It means ‘er mind ‘asn’t caught up yet to what ‘appened. It will…but she needs to rest and ‘eal.” Quieter, as though scared of being overheard. “She was very badly ‘urt.”

The idea of Hermione without her mind is like an owl without wings, a snake without scales, a dragon without it’s fire, horrifying and unnatural. He thought of the Longbottoms, who never came back, who stayed in a far-away place. Bile rose in his throat. “Can you give her something to help? Is she…?”

“I’ll have potions for her later. I gave ‘er some before, but she insisted she needed to be with you and ‘Arry. The rest aren’t finished yet, so she should sleep.” They’re up in the bedroom now, Fleur took the blanket back from Hermione as she sat down. Hermione was not wearing her trousers, the sight of her scratched up, bare legs surprised him for a moment, and he glanced at Fleur. She ignored him, focusing on Hermione, patting her on the shoulder. “’Ermione, get some rest, we’ll be back with your potions later, okay?”

Hermione had nodded, detached, and then laid down. Ron had squeezed her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice him, and he wiped a few tears from his eyes as he told her to rest and followed Fleur back into the hallway, closing her door behind him.

“Is she--- her mind---”

“I don’t know if zere will be any…lasting effects. I ‘ope not, she’s just very tired and I’m sure she’ll be more ‘erself with some time.”

“She was…er, she had trousers on…before…right?”

Fleur looked at him, surprised, before her expression changed. “Er…yes, she was, but she, well…sometimes when someone is in a lot of pain, their body…”

Ron caught her meaning. Hermione had soiled herself, no shame in it, he would have done no differently. “Ah, I just wanted to make sure…”

“I know, Ronald.” Fleur smiles at him. “Come, let’s go check on ‘Arry.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_No, no she can’t, she can’t-_

It all came back, those post-Department feelings, that nauseous rolling sense of terror. It had begun building when Luna called for them, coming downstairs and saying she thought she heard crying, and it may have been coming from Hermione’s room? It grew stronger as they found her lying there, curled up against the loo, kicking out at him as he tried to pull her to him.

If her mind was absent before, it was present now. She knew was she needed, but didn’t know how to get it. As he and Harry tried to settle her, tried to get her what she needed and problem-solve to get her up and changed, he felt increasingly helpless. She was in pain, but he couldn’t stop it. She wanted her dirty clothing off, but he couldn’t figure out how to move her without hurting her. 

It wasn’t just him though. He’d lock eyes with Harry, the two of them frozen in the same horrified, concerned expression. Harry was just as scared, just as concerned. And then Fleur appeared, calmer, more in control, but none of them quite knew what to do when Hermione spasmed, seized up, choked and crumpled into Harry.

Harry caught her, wrapping his arms around her holding her against him. He was the first to find his voice as well. “Hermione…Hermione!”

“Blimey, Hermione---” Ron took two big steps to his best friends, trying to determine what was happening.

She was still convulsing, and then finally went still. Harry took her weight into himself and lifted her up. His face was white as he turned to Fleur. “Do you have a bezoar? Was she—” 

“No, ‘Arry she ‘asn’t drank anything in ‘ours.” Fleur stepped backwards out of the bathroom, clearing a path for them to exit. “Put her there on the bed…I’ll check her over but I think…I think it’s the curse.”  
“Here, Harry.” Ron had always been the taller of the two of them, stronger in his own way, and he took Hermione’s leg’s and held his half of her weight. It was an insignificant weight, really, and he marveled for the second time in the span of a few hours that this was it, this was the weight that held the entirety of her.

She was too still, now that the shaking had stopped. Her eyes were closed and the sharp cut along her throat from that knife stood out against the unnatural pallor of her skin. Fleur stood at the head of the bed, face close to Hermione’s. 

“Ron….it was like you with the bezoar…at least a little…” 

“I know, mate, I figured.” He found himself grabbing Harry’s hand almost automatically, giving it a squeeze. If Harry was surprised at this display of affection, he didn’t show it, instead leaning into Ron a little bit. 

They were quiet for a moment, Ron listened to the sound of Harry’s breathing, familiar after seven years of shared bedrooms and close sleeping arrangements. It was easy, a comfortable rhythm after all these years that he can barely sleep without.

Fleur stood up straighter. “She’s asleep….or fainted, I cannot tell which. Sometimes…pain can do that to a person.” 

“Yeah, but the…she had some kind of fit…” 

“I can’t explain that, Ron, I’ll ask Bill, see what ‘e zinks.” She waves a hand in the direction of the bathroom. “Could one of you get a, eh, a washcloth wet for me?” 

Harry follows the command, and maybe it’s time, or the laying down, or the cool touch of the washcloth, but Hermione begins to stir. Her eyes open, and the first words she forms with her cracked voice is their names and all Ron can think is once again, he got lucky. They’re there, and he’s going to be okay.


	3. Chapter Three-Harry

As long as Harry remembers, he has woken up with blurry vision that necessitated grappling for his thick, circular glasses as soon as he woke up. In doing so, he’d gathered a list of techniques for ascertaining where exactly he was in those first few minutes of consciousness. The dark wood and the smell of cleaning chemicals? That’s under the cupboard under the stairs. The white, plain ceiling? That’s the smaller bedroom on Privet Drive. The sound of young male voices and the reddish blur of the curtains meant his room in Gryffindor tower, the sound of Ron’s breathing and the smell of home-cooking meant the Burrow. And then lately, the tent, dirty-beige fabric and the smell of sweaty bodies.

So as soon as consciousness returns, Harry is already taking inventory. The smell of the sea, new, different. Light, pale-blue light coming in. The sound of someone crying, or whimpering. His eyes open all the way. 

_Right. Shell Cottage. Hermione. Ron._

Hermione. That must be who’s crying. He needs to get her.

When he turns his head his faced immediately by Hermione’s hair. She has her back to him, and he touches her shoulder gently. “Hey, ‘Mione, you’re okay…” She doesn’t respond immediately, so he wraps his arm over her shoulders and rocks them both a little. “Hey, hey….shh, it’s okay.”

She doesn’t wake up, but she does go quiet and breathes steadier, deeper. The same flush of pride that he remembers from Quidditch games floods back over him, he’s done it, and Hermione relaxes. He’s content to just lie there and breathe.

But still listening, after a few moments he notices that Ron’s missing. He strains his ears, maybe Ron’s using the loo, or taking a shower, Harry could use a shower…. 

But there’s nothing. Propping himself up on his free arm, he attempts to look around the room. His other arm holds Hermione close, and his vision is clear enough to look down at her face. Her eyes are closed, her face is bruised but she looks peaceful enough. So he needs to focus on finding Ron. 

“Ron…?” He whispers it, not wanting to disturb her. He’s torn between looking for him and not wanting to leave Hermione alone, and as his mind flips through his options, he hears the door open. “Ron?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me.” Ron closes the door carefully behind him, speaking in a low voice. “She okay?”

“Yeah, she’s asleep--- I woke up, I didn’t know where you were.”

“Sorry, I wanted to get some water, and see if she needed any more potions, Fleur said—Merlin, wait, you need your glasses…” Ron shuffles, there’s the sound of glass being set down and he watches the blur that is Ron’s shirt move for a moment before he’s handed his glasses.

“Thanks.” He puts them on and looks at Ron. “How are you?”

“Me? I’m alright. Anyway, Fleur says that we shouldn’t wake Hermione up if she’s sleeping, but whenever she wakes she should have some water and some of this.” Ron taps gently on the glass vial holding a pale yellow potion that he’s set on the bedside table. “Also Fleur says we should eat, we need to rebuild our magic.” 

“’Rebuild our magic?’ What does that mean?” 

“Yeah, it’s…it’s something Mum used to say…you know, when we were sick? Ginny and I got something really bad one winter and it was just weeks straight of soup and being told that we ‘had to rebuild our magic’, not that we had any real magic at that age…I thought it was just a thing she said, never heard anyone else use it.” Ron smiles at Harry. Harry feels him considering the two of them, at the way Harry’s arm is holding Hermione. The smile fades, and Ron looks serious for a moment. “She’s okay?”

“She’s okay, she’s sleeping.”

“And you…you’re okay, right?” Ron sits down on his side of the bed, looking at Harry seriously. “No offense mate, but you look really, really tired. And hungry…what were you eating this winter, I mean blimey…”

“I’m okay, I just…” Harry sits up, leaning back against the head of the bed. He rests his resting arm over Hermione, rubbing her shoulder gently. He looks at her, and then back at Ron who is waiting patiently. “That _never_ should have happened to her, Ron. Something like that shouldn’t have happened, but…I can’t promise it won’t again. But she shouldn’t…neither of you should ever have to…but if I can’t keep it from happening then what, you both live with that kind of danger? No one is supposed to die for me, Ron, or get…” He trails off, and then restarts. “How can I ask her to follow me if that’s the consequence? I wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to stay…”

“Harry, it’s _Hermione_. She makes her own choices, always has.” Ron leans back against the headboard on his side, leaning to the side enough that his head touches Harry’s for a moment. “Look, mate, it’s always been a choice. We’ve always made it…and I don’t regret it. I regret leaving, but I don’t regret coming back.”

Harry sniffs, wipes his hand across his face. 

“Oh, Harry, come ‘ere.” And then his long arm is stretched out, managing just to wrap around Harry’s shoulder, and Harry leans into him, careful not to lean his weight onto Hermione. “It’s okay.”

Way back when he had entered Hogwarts, Harry had been a recent resident of a cleaning closet who was in no way used to being touched, and it had taken him nearly the entire term to get used to the concept. But once he did, once the concept became less foreign, he learned to really enjoy it.

Hermione was a hugger, always had been, and at first it was like she was trying to trap him. But he had grown to love the way she flung her arms around him, the pressure of her arms and the way her hair tickled his nose of the side of his cheek when she leaned her head against his. He loved the smell of her, the way her shampoo smell followed her around like a blanket he could wrap himself in, a smell that would last for the first day or so of summer when they hugged goodbye on that platform. He’d hold it in his nose, in his lungs, desperate for it. Her hugs were potent, like Molly Weasley’s but stronger, and he could feel something in him, the wounded little boy he had been, yearning, desperate for more.

Ron, on the other hand, wasn’t a hugger. It was nice when he did, but it wasn’t quite the same. But he did something that was almost better, he’d fling one arm around Harry’s shoulder, all male casualness, and pull Harry a little bit into his side. Terrifying at first, but then much like the hugs, he grew to want more and more of it. The feeling told Harry that he was part of a team, that he wasn’t alone anymore. It was the upmost of solidarity, and during all those years at Hogwarts that feeling and the sound of Ron’s breathing were some of his steadiest constants. He’d wake up halfway through the night in his bedroom at Privet Drive only to realize that it wasn’t a sound that bothered him, but the fact that Ron’s breathing wasn’t there.

Harry sinks his head against Ron’s shoulder, listening to Ron breathe. It’s a little uncomfortable to lean like this and he’s sure that Ron’s arm doesn’t feel much better, but he’s so grateful he could sob. “I missed this,” he finds himself whispering, almost without meaning to.

Ron pauses for a moment, and then presses his hand harder against the back of Harry’s neck. “I missed you too. I’m so sorry I left, Harry.”

“You’re here now.” He rubs his hand on Hermione’s shoulder and relaxes and breathes, finally breathes.

“Sorry, ah, my shoulder –” Ron straightens, releasing Harry. He stays facing them, looking seriously into Harry’s face, studying him. He reaches for something wrapped in a napkin on the nightstand, next to the potion and the empty water cup. “Fleur gave me some bread, want one?”

“Not really that hungry, thanks.” 

An understatement, he’s nauseous, wound up with concern and he’s not at all interested in the idea of eating. That had always been his way when stressed, he’d let his stomach go empty until he was wobbly, dizzy getting off the quidditch pitch after those practices, those games. He got used to Ron meeting him with biscuits, pieces of toast, chocolate frogs. Hermione would wrinkle her nose at the sweets, not those Harry, not those on an empty stomach, and he’d take an apple or a pear from her, perfectly balanced between them.

He blinks, and Ron’s still frowning at him, “I’ll split one with you…Seriously, mate, I think you should eat.”

Maybe it’s in the Weasley’s, in their blood. Harry sighs, smiling, and takes half the bread roll from Ron. “You sound like your mum.” 

“Yeah, well, if Mum could see you she’d be throwing a right fit. Fleur and Luna are making some soup, that’s non-optional.” Ron takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. 

“How is Luna?”

“You know…she’s Luna. But she’s different, a little. She wants to see Hermione.”

“Maybe when she wakes up. And yeah, I reckon spending a month in that cellar would change anyone.” Harry shudders, his skin feels cold and for a second the room seems to feel strangely dark and then claustrophobic…for a second he begins to smell the lemon edge of cleaning chemicals…

“Hey, Harry…she’s okay. She’s Luna, she’ll be okay.” 

He stiffens a little as the weight come down on his arm, a hand covering over the wrist that’s holding Hermione before his brain kicks in with its Ron, it’s Ron and he smiles. “Yeah, Luna’s….Luna will be okay. I reckon we’re all a little different, aren’t we?”

Ron squeezes his arm. “I reckon we are.”

They’re quiet for a moment, reflective until Hermione kicks a little towards Ron, letting out another small whimper. The sound makes Harry jump, it takes him a second to respond.

“It’s okay Hermione, we’re here. You’re safe.” Ron leans over, looking into Hermione’s face. Her hand is balled up in a fist, and he takes it gently, easing it open. “We’re here, hey, can you hear me?” 

Harry squeezes her arm, gently. “I think she’s out. What time-“ he breaks into a yawn, “sorry, what time is it?” 

“We slept for like two hours.” Ron echoes his yawn, and then laughs. “Harry, you look wiped, let’s get some more sleep, yeah?”

He passes his glasses back to Ron and lies back down, arm still slung over Hermione’s shoulder. Her hair presses against his forehead, even after all this time she still smells like Hermione, and he sighs as the last traces of lemon-floor-cleaner finally leave. That’s one thing he loves about the Burrow…it never smells like cleaner.

“Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss your mum.” 

Ron lets out a sigh, and he hears him turn over on the mattress. Then Ron’s arm reaches over Hermione’s middle, his hand coming to rest right by Harry’s chest. “I miss her too. And I know she misses you…all of us…” He breathes for a moment, then continues. “That’s where I want to go when this is all over. I figure we’ll go there for a while-“ Ron yawns again, “-just to take a breather…”

After all these years, he still loves that word. _We_. “Yeah, I figure we will.”


	4. Chapter Four - Hermione

Her first attempt at regaining consciousness is lurching, ineffective, she wakes with her eyes still closed and her mouth open, wheezing or…is she _screaming_ …? The lavender taste of something still lingers on her tongue before she heaves, bile pooling across her teeth, her bones hurt, her bones hurt, she has the flu, it must be the flu, it must…

“Hermione, drink.” Firm, masculine, male. Her eyes feel swollen but she sees someone bending, holding a glass to her mouth and someone is rubbing her shoulders and she swallows, it tastes bad, must be medicine, she has the flu, she’s feverish she’s burning up oh god oh god.

“Dad?”

“Oh, Hermione…no.” 

Her stomach drops out, it’s not the flu and this isn’t her bedroom and that’s not her Dad, that’s Ron, that’s the ocean, that’s the pain of being tortured, that’s Harry, those are tears.

She knows it’s illogical but her eyes stream anew. “Dad! Mum!”

She sentenced them to Australia, you know, wrote their names and stories into a spell and shoved it into their brain. Took control of everything and yanked it away from them without their consent, no say, no choice, no options. Not for Muggles, wizards always know best, always confound and confuse and obliviate, they’re the important ones so _who asks the Muggles??_ Unforgivable, their own daughter. Perhaps Bellatrix knew, smelt it, not the impurity, the mud in her veins but the dirt in her very soul. Hermione sobs.

“Hermione, drink!” She finishes the glass, swallows, looks up at them. “There you go, there you go. Do you know who we are?” Ron’s lips are pressed white, he puts the glass down and grips both her hands. “Do you know who we are, Hermione?”

Her voice shakes. “You’re my best friends.” And that must be good enough, because then they’re a tangle of limbs and she’s asleep again.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

The second attempt is more gradual, more relaxed. The sun is starting to go down when she sits up in the bed. Harry’s at a chair in the corner, looking at a shard of mirror. He looks over at her when he hears her stir, smiles at her. “Hey…how are you feeling?”

“Ron?” Her voice feels raw and she grimaces.

“In the shower. Should be out soon.” Harry sits next to her on the edge of the bed. Sure enough, he smells clean, soapy as she puts her head on his shoulder. She knows she reeks in comparison. “Dinner’s in a little bit, okay?” 

“I’m not…” she starts weakly, trailing off as she meets his raised eyebrows. 

“Me either. But it’s important. And you do not want to fight with Ron on this one, I promise you.” 

“Don’t want to fight me on what?” Ron’s cracking open the door now, coming out with wet hair and his shirt half on. “And hey there Hermione, how are you feeling? Dinner’s in a little bit, alright?”

“On you making sure we get a good supper in us,” Harry says with a smile, and Ron smiles back and it’s all very strange because she doesn’t remember them being like this, not for a while, not since they were younger and cleaner and the world wasn’t on them.

“Well, someone’s gotta be in charge and I figure it’s my turn…” his face changes. “Hermione, you okay?”

She nods against Harry’s shoulder. “Yes, just sore.” And all of a sudden they aren’t smiling anymore.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

For two days, she sits on the couch and drinks soup and tea and potions like it’s her job. She sleeps and wakes randomly, losing chunks of the day at a time, dropping off to the sound of people talking and waking suddenly with a gasp, a shudder, a scream. 

Ron or Harry’s always there when she wakes up. It’s the best when it’s both of them. They both try to sleep one night on the couches downstairs but they don’t manage, she’s not asleep yet when Ron comes through the door, face white, voice strangled, Harry hot on his heels. “I thought, I thought—” and then he’s squeezing her, squeezing her so tight that all her bruises ache and her muscles grind and something in her presses back together, aligned like reset bones.

They’re not there always, though they’re never gone more than an hour or two. Sometimes Luna joins her on the couch, and Harry can go to Dobby and Ron can go to Bill and she and Luna sit, sometimes silent. Luna’s different, she’s pale, she’s tired, but her presence is soothing and she never once makes Hermione explain herself. Luna herself has so much that she can explain, so much buried deep inside her convex, sparkling mind.

“You were in the cellar?”

“Yes. With Dean, and Ollivander, and the goblin. It was very, very dark but Ron and Harry came. Did you know that Ron carries lights in his pocket? I heard you screaming.”

“I’m sorry, Luna.”

Luna turns her large eyes to Hermione, and smiles, gentle and soft in the pale sunlight. “For screaming? Don’t be. It meant you were alive. I heard people scream a lot, but that was the first time it was someone I knew.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning she’s had it with washcloths and cleaning spells and when Ron’s helping with the garden and Harry’s out by the beach she tells Luna that she can smell the Malfoys on her and could she please, please have some help getting a shower.

Luna sits on the toilet and talks while Hermione showers, one hand gripping the walls and the other flexing rhythmically at her side as she silently cries into the warm water. She thinks Luna knows somehow, but she’s good enough not to say anything. Dirt and sweat and the last traces of blood swirl down the drain and she looks at her feet and takes deep, sucking breaths.

“…I guess I’ve wondered about Father, you know. If he’s eating. He never was good about such things, not after Mum….Hermione, are you sick?”

Luna says it right before Hermione realizes it, but before she knows what’s happening she’s vomiting, violently vomiting in the shower and her muscles are spasming, wracked with pain. Her legs buckle and she loses the traction of her hand against the wall and stumbles backwards, right into Luna who is inexplicably standing, fully-clothed, in the shower. 

She’s wrapped in an ineffectual towel and Luna’s arms, her sweater taking on the hot water as she scrabbles with one hand for the knob of the shower, using the other to hold Hermione close and upright. Hermione’s legs go and they’re both sitting on the wet floor, sprayed full in the face until Luna gets the water turned off. 

“Do you want me to call for Fleur, or do you just want to sit for a while?” Luna asks, as though nothing strange is happening, as though her jeans aren’t soaked and Hermione’s legs aren’t shaking uncontrollably, bruised knees tapping rhythmically against the floor.

“I can’t take a bloody shower,” she sobs in response and closes her eyes. 

Fleur gets them up, it takes two parts because Hermione’s eyes roll up a little bit when she stands and she almost goes down again. Fleur finds Luna dry clothes and helps Hermione redress, drying her off with movements that are gentle yet staccato with worry. When Hermione’s decent, Bill enters the room and looks at her, appraises her straight in the face. He looks like Ron.

“Ron? Harry?”

“They’re fine. Ron’s with Harry, up on the hill.” He looks at Fleur, frowning, and says in a low voice. “She’s not healing.”

“Bill, not now.” Fleur presses her hand to Hermione’s forehead and frowns. “’Ermione, where are your parents? Are they safe?”

“They’re in Australia…” And then, quieter. “I killed them. They’re gone.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Bill and Fleur are talking to Ron and Harry very seriously in the hallway. She hears their voices as though in a dream, there’s a slew of potions lingering on her tongue and her muscles are languid, weak, heavy.

“Ron, Harry…she collapsed in the shower, can you please tell us what’s going on here?”

There’s commotion, Ron’s saying something loudly about _not being told earlier, Bill, you should have gotten us_ and Harry’s saying something about _why was she in the shower, is she okay, is she okay let me in, let me in, letmeinletmein!_

Fleur’s voice is Veela edged, honeyed and sharpened, Hermione imagines it would taste like licorice and sugar, like biting steel. “’Arry, Ron, calm down. She’s sleeping. But I don’t know ‘ow to ‘elp ‘er. She’s not ‘ealing like she should, the damage is deep.”

“Ron, _who did this_?”

Ron’s voice is low, she imagines him at eleven, redheaded on the train. “Bellatrix.” And then. “Bill, it lasted so long.”

There’s a pause, and for a second Hermione’s somewhere else, she’s on the train, but then she’s interrupted by Bill’s voice again and it’s clipped and breathless and wounded. “Ron, you must know how lucky you both are to have gotten her back at all.”

“I could disguise ‘er, maybe, and take ‘er to a ‘ealer I’ve been writing too. Someone who can…” Fleur’s voice has lost its edge, lost its power, her sister is at the bottom of the lake and Hermione’s hair is wet, wet and cold.

“It’s too risky.”

Madam Pompfrey is taking her hand to check her over but when she opens her eyes to say it’s okay, Viktor got her, she finds herself looking at Ron and Harry and is glad she didn’t say anything. Ron gets jealous of Viktor, it’s silly, she doesn’t like Viktor like that, she kissed him on the cheek to be polite, they weren’t _snogging, why are you being so jealous?_

They both look very, very concerned which is funny because she doesn’t feel terribly bad, a little sore but she’s had worse, she’d been petrified you know, so she wonders why she’s in the Hospital Wing and whispers “What have we done now?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re very, very careful for a few days, creeping around like children under invisibility cloaks, in the restricted section, on the third floor. She goes between the bed and the couch, sleeps with her head in Harry’s lap, on Ron’s legs, wakes to potions and temperature checks and to Luna’s beautiful ability to not catastrophize and instead ask for tips on knitting. When she’s awake that first time, when she’s sensible she tells Fleur that it’s too risky for her to be taken to a healer. She’d blow their cover. She could get them all killed.

Harry’s eyes are frighteningly large, green and wounded and she thinks for a second that he’ll cry but instead he holds her, very, very tight and goes to sit with Dobby. Ron’s frustrated and lets her know. They don’t fight loudly, not like they used to, but he makes her look at him and says not to be stupid. 

She says she’s not stupid, thank you very much, and doesn’t he understand? They could get Harry killed, get Bill and Fleur killed.

“I’ll take you myself. We’ll apparate and we’ll say nothing.” he says, heat gone from his voice.

“Your parents. Ginny,” she replies, and he has no arguments so he walks away and doesn’t return until nightfall. She’s asleep and starts when she feels him climb into bed.

“Shh, just me.” He wraps one arm over her middle and puts his mouth near her ear. “I’m sorry I got upset. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m getting better,” she replies, rolling over to face him. Harry grunts at the movement but doesn’t wake up, and she looks at Ron’s face in the moonlight. “I promise.”

“It should be faster.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I don’t want to slow you down.”

He presses his lips quickly to her forehead. “That’s not what I said and you know it.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------

She eats an entire bowl of porridge for the privilege of taking a walk outside, it’s a big bowl and Fleur gives her thirty minutes but it’s the first time she’s been farther than the garden since the day they arrived. The ocean breeze blows through her, the smell is brisk and clean and she thinks of her parents, of the ocean-scented candle her mother keeps in the bathroom, reminding herself of their summer trips to the coast.

Harry’s with Dobby, Ron’s with Dean in the garden out back, and she doesn’t want to disturb either of them so she walks within a few paces of the edge of the cliff and looks out over the ocean. The ocean waves crash against the rocks below her and she wraps her arms around herself and closes her eyes and listens. Eventually her legs tire and get sore and she sits, letting her feet dangle.

“’Mione,” Harry says gently, coming to stand next to her. “You shouldn’t sit so close to the edge.” He takes her hands and pulls her up, wrapping his arm around her waist like he did in Godric’s Hollow, a different time with a different grave.

“When do you have to leave?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Horocruxes, Harry. I mean, either one of you could be…” her throat tightens and goes dry, “Bellatrix… and I’ll help you plan, I’ll loan you the bag…”

Harry sighs and tugs gently on one of her curls. “You’re ridiculous. I won’t leave you, we’ll stay as long as you need me to.” He pauses, studying the strands of her hair. “You can stay of course, if you like, but-“

“No Harry, of course I wouldn’t leave, I just…” she thinks of Ron’s face. “It’s important. The Horocruxes, I mean. And I’m…it should be faster.”

“No. You’re getting better and that’s all that matters.” He’s silent, face set. “I never meant for this to happen to you.”

“ _You’re_ ridiculous.” He doesn’t have long enough hair for her to gently pull, so she settles for bumping her head gently on his shoulder. “We’ve had this talk. You can’t blame yourself for things that you don’t do, Harry Potter.”

They’re quiet for a while, and then she sighs. “I only get to be out for 30 minutes. Fleur’s rules.”

“Okay. Let’s take you back. But honestly, you’re sure?”

“I’ve always been sure. But… I don’t want to slow you down.”

“We’ll go when you’re ready.”

“One week?”

“Perfect.” He squeezes her hand. “Look, Ron’s coming to meet us.”

Sure enough, Ron’s got dirt on his face and he smiles at them from the doorstep. “I’m making tea, you want any?”

“Yes please,” she calls back, and Harry echoes and they walk back to the cottage together, fingers interlaced. “I had to eat a whole bowl of porridge to be allowed outside, you know.”

“Fleur’s definitely a Weasley now, isn’t she?”

And they laugh until they hiccup and it feels perfect.


	5. Chapter Five

The day Fred died, Ron kissed Hermione and Harry came back to life. Ron’s taller than all three of them, he’s never felt this tall, he’s never been this scared.

Hermione feels small as he presses his lips against hers, she tastes like dust and tears, hot and alive against his face. He thinks they’re both crying, but he’s not sure if he’s even breathing anymore, if his heart still beats. Hogwarts is hemorrhaging. 

Fred seems small laid out in the Great Hall, Ron grew taller than him long ago but he’s never seemed _small_ but he is there, on that table. He smells like dust as Ron grabs at his jacket, his shirt. For a second, he thinks there’s been a horrible mistake, that they’ve got it all wrong as something warm grabs his hand. But it’s George, it’s George, sobbing and covered in dust, grabbing at Ron’s coat, and their mother’s shoulder, while Fred lies still and quiet below them. He has that smile like he’s about to say something funny, about to spring upward and surprise them all, but there’s no more jokes, not from Fred.

And Harry…for a second Harry looks eleven again in Hagrid’s arms, smaller even, smaller than he’s ever been. He looks like he use to in those dreams Ron would have, of a little boy in a dark closet, a little boy behind bars on the window. Ginny’s shrieking, and Ron thinks he’ll tackle her if he has to, he’ll sit on her like they’re children again and hold him down because no one else gets to die, no one else gets to leave. 

But their father has Ginny, so Ron grabs for Hermione. He wants to pick her up and carry her away. He wants to do something rash and drastic, make them little again, make her be a buck-toothed little know-it-all, make Harry alive, make Fred sit up and smile. Hermione leans into him like her legs might go out under her but she stays upright, sharp nails digging into his arms and he hears her whisper Harry’s name, rehearsing it, pleading with it like a spell she hasn’t yet learned.

Maybe it’s magic, some collective magic that pools in all of their bones, maybe it’s one last gift from Fred, a tool he hadn’t told them about, but Harry never was able to stay dead and he comes back to them, living once more.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort lies dead as the three of them return to the Great Hall from Dumbledore’s office. The room feels crowded and broken. Fred’s still there on his table, a table that may once have been part of the Slytherin tables. It’s hard to tell now, nothing feel’s real. Fred’s growing colder, in tragic good company. Lupin and Tonks are nearby, Colin’s not far off. But Harry stands on his own two legs and isn’t dead, Ron’s fingers tangled in his sleeve in frantic desperation. 

It’s like something from a horrible dream, as his family reunites around Fred’s body. Percy stands, almost awkwardly folded in the corner until their mother reaches for him. Ron hasn’t seen them like this in so long, since he was younger and they gathered around the table in the kitchen.

He looks over his shoulder from time to time, to make sure they’re still there, but he can feel Harry and Hermione nearby, sometimes with their hands on his shoulders, or hugging Ginny, or Harry talking to his mother and accepting the swallowing, overwhelming love of her hugs. There are tear tracks carved through the dust and blood on their faces. He loves them for crying for Fred. He loves them so much. 

Hours pass and time pulls like sticky taffy in front of him. They haven’t slept since Shell Cottage, they rode a dragon, they broke into Gringotts, they fought an ugly, miserable battle. The Great Hall grows quiet, exhausted, sobs or tight-strung, slightly-crazed laughs breaking out at random. Ron feels himself nodding off, trying to fall asleep on his feet.

“Hey, Ron.” Harry’s in front of him all of a sudden. “Hey. We’re going up to the Tower, come on.” 

His father is there too. “Ron, you need to go get some sleep.”

“But Mum, and George-“ he reaches for his father’s shoulder to be steadied, held up like a child.

“Ron, I’ve got them, I’ll take good care of them. You take Ginny, okay?” 

He nods, dead on his feet, and sees Hermione with her arm around Ginny’s shoulder, saying something reassuring. They look pale, Harry’s covered in blood and he reaches for his hand. “Okay.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Common Room is mostly the same, a strange comforting space in the midst of the war-torn castle. It’s beautiful, almost sacred, the fires burned out and books and other supplies left about almost at random. Like a time capsule, preserved. 

“Ginny, let’s go to your room, yeah?” Hermione looks to Harry, looks to Ron for confirmation. “I think you’ll sleep best there, Ron and Harry will go to their room.”

Ginny nods and grabs Ron’s hand, he gives her a squeeze. “It’s okay, Gin. Go get some sleep.”

They part by the staircase and he and Harry limp up to their old room. It’s just as they left it, their old beds stand immaculate, like shrines. Neville’s is clearly recently slept in, he can see scattered belongings, signs of life. 

_Oh Neville._

Harry pulls the curtains shut and lies down on his bed, not bothering to take his shoes off or climb beneath the covers. Ron looks at his old four-poster and shakes his head, coming to lie down with Harry. He lies practically on top of Harry, pinning down with his heat, his warmth, trying to nail him to bed and keep him there.

The room is a dark, muted red as the sun shines through the curtains, and he feels Harry breathe beneath him. “Did you see Fred?”

“What?”

His throat rasps, sore. “When you died. Did you see Fred?”

“No. I saw Dumbledore. It was a train station, and he said I could get on a train and leave, or I could go back.”

Ron shifts, his mouth lands somewhere between Harry’s neck and his shoulder, against his warm skin and he thinks he kisses him. It feels like kissing Hermione, natural and right, like crying. “Don’t go.”

Harry puts his hand on Ron’s head and breathes, his beautiful heart beating in the darkness. “I didn’t. I won’t.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He awakes later and knows he’s been crying, the shirt below his cheek wet and salty like the sea. “Harry?”

Harry’s voice creaks and comes to life beneath him. “It’s okay, mate, it’s okay.”

There are footsteps on the stairs outside their door, and a small voice comes across the dark to them. “Harry? Ron?”

“Hermione?” He wants to sit up, his body won’t listen. Sure enough, it’s her, he sees the backlit halo of her hair in the dim light as she comes to the side of the bed.

“Ron.” She takes his hand. “Ginny wanted your mum. I took her back to the Great Hall, but I…I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

They shift, make a space, and she climbs in next to Harry and tangles her legs into them, entwined. She makes a pained sound as she lies down, she isn’t quite right yet, not after everything and he remembers it with a stab. 

Harry sounds anxious when he speaks. “You walked back all by yourself?”

“It’s just Hogwarts, Harry. I talked with Professor McGonagall a bit. It’s okay.”

Ron’s voice comes out, sleepy. “I kissed both of you today. But Harry was a bit on accident.”

Harry laughs. “Right on, mate, it’s about time.” 

Hermione laughs as well and rolls over, face in Harry’s shoulder, against Ron’s cheek. The laughter takes on a tearful edge. “Oh God Harry…you were dead…”

“Shh. I’m here. I’m right here.”


	6. Chapter Six - Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really am starting to play with the idea of long-lasting trauma now...I think it's only fair considering everything that they went through that they're not magically going to be mentally well at the end of it all.

Like many other things, the Burrow feels like home and the Burrow feels off-center, off-kilter, wrong. After a bit shy of a week helping at Hogwarts, after the dead are buried and the castle is patched back together, Mrs. Weasley sits them down and tells them it’s time to go home.

Harry doesn’t question it. The Weasley’s need to go home, and in her eyes, he’s as good as a Weasley. He and Ron apparate with George, whose eyes have finally gone dry. Professor McGonagall sees them off, and they promise to be back soon.

Ron’s bedroom is a time capsule of orange, the ghoul is removed and settled happily back in its attic and the two of them sit on the old bedspread for a moment. 

“Dad or Charlie will bring up the camp bed for you, and the other for Ginny’s room.”

“That’ll be good, fewer sets of stairs for Hermione.”

“Yeah.” Harry watched as Ron looked up at the ceiling for a second. “I think Percy’s gonna sleep with George…just for a little. And then maybe he could come up with us?”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “Yeah, of course, he can have the camper…” He leaned into Ron, just a little, and let Ron rest his head on his. “Whatever he needs.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They live in a foggy underwater world for a day or so, but then Mrs. Weasley seems to straighten up and see the world through clear eyes for the first time in a while. Harry creeps downstairs one morning to find breakfast ready for the table and pots magically scrubbing in the sink.

“Harry, dear.” Her voice is subdued, but her hug feels largely the same. Then she pulls away and looks at him, really looks at him. “Oh, you’ve all gotten so thin. Will you help me set the table, dear? Fleur and Bill arrived last night, they’ll be here a few days, so I think we have enough chairs…”

His fingertips feel rough against the tablecloth as he smooths it out across the long table. He could use magic, but it’s almost the same as on the hill with Dobby and almost entirely different, there’s something soothing about the sensory indulgence. The cool feeling of the plates against his hands, of the wood as he pushes the chairs into proper alignment. As he places down silverware, _fork knife spoon, fork knife spoon_ , he hones in on the feeling of motion behind him, the sound of quiet footsteps. 

“Morning, Harry.” It’s Hermione, and he turns with a smile to look at her. She looks exhausted, dark circles in pale face, but she smiles in return. 

“Morning.” He wraps one arm around her, his other hand still counting out silverware ( _fork knife spoon, fork knife spoon_ ). She leans into the embrace eagerly. “How did you sleep?”

“Okay.” And then lower, for his ears only. “Ginny had dreams.” 

He holds her for a second longer, letting the smell of her wrap around him. He could be fourteen again, in the Weasley kitchen, eagerly anticipating the World Cup. The smell of eggs and fresh bread. She grips his hand and squeezes, then releases. 

“I’ll get the napkins.”

She’s better at it than he is, because at the end of it all, he finds himself holding an extra set of silverware. Fork knife spoon. Fred.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eventually it becomes apparent that it’s Hermione, not Ginny, who’s up most nights. Ron catches her curled up on the couch one afternoon about a week after their return, dead to the world as though stunned. His voice trembles and stutters as he grabs for Harry’s hand and pulls him from the front lawn, wordless panic across his features. They kneel down near the edge of the couch.

She’s breathing, Merlin, she’s breathing. The tightness in his throat releases as he carefully moves some of her hair out of her face. Her skin is warm against his fingertips, her face is relaxed and he breaths, truly breathes.. 

“You’re bleeding,” Ron whispers. 

“Crookshank was in the garden…I was trying to…” Harry studies the small scratch on his hand. Like the rest of them, Crookshanks had adapted to a more solitary life, minding his own business in the garden and caring for himself some fields over when everyone had gone into hiding. Harry had been crouched by the bush, trying to coax him inside to surprise Hermione, to make her smile. Ron’s arrival had startled both of them.

Ron nods, breath shuddering. “I called to her and she…she didn’t…”

“I know, it’s okay…it’s okay, she’s asleep. She’s just asleep.” Harry turns to Ron, grabs him, hugs him (it took the loss of so many things, the near loss of everything, but he can do it now, he can grab and hold and _keep_ ). “I’ve got you.” Ron sobs into his shirt and he holds him, keeps him. Harry rocks them both and breathes and lives, Fred died for him like Lupin did, like Tonks did, like Ginny shrieking at Voldemort in raw grief, like Hermione screaming as they tried desperately to find their way out of the dungeon, and now Ron cries and cries. 

Another one of Harry’s casualties. 

His mouth is pressed against Harry’s shoulder, trying to stifle the sounds of his crying. He shouldn’t do that, he should cry as loud as he wants, should scream if he wants to.

He can’t reach his wand from this position, Ron’s got his arms too tightly. “Ron, do you want to go into the garden, I’ll put a silencing charm and you—” 

Ron shakes his head furiously, keeps his mouth pressed hard and tight against Harry and shudders. It takes him a few moments before he goes still and pulls away, pale face red and blotchy, sniffing. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.”

“Don’t be what? Oh, Ron, you’ve been crying.” Hermione pulls herself into a seated position on the couch, rubbing sleep from her eyes furiously, her hair in disarray. “Has something….here, my handkerchief…has something….”

It’s technically Ron’s handkerchief, he loaned it to her, and Ron takes it back gratefully. “Yeah, thanks…” Ron wipes his face, blows his nose. “Sorry, I….just was thinking…about everything. I didn’t mean to wake you, you’ve been so tired.” 

She blinks at them in surprise. “Oh Ron. It’s okay, I didn’t mean to! Really, I just sat down for a moment and I guess…” 

“Hermione, have you been sleeping?” Harry looks at her, trying to gauge if she’s more tired than she was before. Her eyes look wide in her pale, thin face. She averts her eyes, ready to say something comforting, and he takes her hand to stop her. “He’s right, you’ve been tired. Are you having dreams?”

“I’m okay… I…” Hermione trails off, looks at both of them. She swallows a couple times. “I wake up and I don’t know if you’re…I start…”her lip begins to wobble.

“I know, I know, it’s okay,” Ron seems to consider giving her back his handkerchief and decides against it, instead taking her other hand. “It happens to me too, Merlin, Harry would know. You could come up and get us, and we could talk about it.”

“Yeah, any time,” Harry adds. “In fact, you could go lie down in Ron’s room right now.”

She nods, sleepy and miserable, and Harry remembers Hermione preparing for her O.W.L.S, Hermione studying for exams and running herself ragged until they were nearly pulling out their hair with worry, Hermione crouched by the fire on guard when he came and sent her to bed. “Could I? Right now?”

“Of course.” Ron tosses the handkerchief in the general direction of the clothes heap and extends both large hands to her, pulling her off the sofa. She winces and wobbles for a second, and Harry meets Ron’s eyes over her head. 

She doesn’t appear to notice. “Harry always has such nice ideas.”

“That’s what we keep him around for!” Ron replies jovially. 

Hermione smiles at Harry, her eyes crinkling. “We love Harry. Are you coming too?”

He laughs at her. “And Harry loves you too. Yes, I just have to get something from the garden, I’ll be right up.” 

He watches them start up the stairs before turning and going back to the garden and crouching by the bush. Yellow eyes stare back at him curiously. “Come on…she needs you. Let’s go see Hermione, yeah?”

That does the trick, and Harry climbs the many sets of stairs with Crookshanks heavy and warm and purring in his arms. It’s hard to open the door to Ron’s room with both arms so occupied, but he’s rewarded by the bright, surprised peals of laughter that erupt when he drops his present gently on top of Hermione’s half-asleep form. She startles at the sound, the motion, and sits up in delight, wrapping her arms around the cat.

“Crookshanks!” She smiles and cries and dries her tears against the shaggy orange fur. “Where was he? Harry!”

“Just under the bush, I saw him come over the hedge this morning.” Harry sits on the edge of the camp bed and grins as Crookshanks licks her cheek. “Guess he knew we came back.”

“Clever Crookshanks! Oh I’ve _missed_ you!” 

“Crookshanks, good to have you back,” Ron says with mock formality, extending his hand to cat as though they’d shake hands. Crookshanks stares back at him, yellow intelligent eyes considering the offer, before turning back to Hermione and curling up. “Fair enough. But seriously,” eyes to Harry now, “I’m glad he’s back.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione creeps up the stairs to their bedroom every night, Crookshanks at her heels. She waits long enough for Ginny to settle off to sleep, talking to the younger girl and making sure she’s peacefully asleep before slipping up the stairs. 

He lies with Ron in Ron’s old bed and listens, sighing with relief as he hears her outside the door. In the dim light of Harry’s wand, she smiles at them and wordlessly climbs beneath the blankets, while Crookshanks settles on the camp bed as though it was intended for him all along. 

“I dreamt you were dead, Harry,” she whispers to him one night.

“Well I’m not, so don’t worry about that.” 

“I dream about that too,” Ron adds, and Harry sucks in his breath as he visualizes the copies of himself creeping into their minds, infecting them. Ron continues, “but then I wake up. And Harry’s here. And I dream about Fred…and Snape…” 

“I dream about my parents too,” Hermione murmurs. “McGonagall promised she’d help me try to find them, but what if…”

Her cold foot presses against Harry’s leg, and he jumps in response. “Merlin, Hermione…you should probably wear socks, that can’t be comfortable.” She mumbles in assent, and he props himself up on one arm. “We’ll find them. I’m sure we will.” 

“Who do you dream about?” Ron asks as Harry turns off his wand. 

“Everyone.”

He dreams about Mrs. Weasley crying into her cooking, about the way Bill and Fleur looked at him that day at Shell Cottage as he held Dobby’s corpse. He dreams about Lavender Brown and Draco Malfoy, about Dumbledore and Aberforth, about Dean Thomas. He dreams of Luna in the darkness, about Neville and the fire, about Colin and his camera and about Teddy, orphaned in Harry’s name. He wakes up sweaty, nauseous, guilty in the warm bed, surrounded by people who love him and shouldn't.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some days are worse than others. Some days the Burrow stands completely quiet, Hermione doesn’t read and Ron can’t bring himself to look at his broom. Some days George doesn’t come out of his room until someone goes for him. One of those days, Harry finds himself sitting in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He remembers looking into the Mirror of Erised and wonders what it would show him now. 

Other days are mostly okay. Mrs. Weasley listens to music in the evening and Mr. Weasley asks Harry about the difference in design between dishwashers and a washer for clothing. George tricks Percy into eating a Fever Fudge. Ron and Charlie ride their brooms in the yard, or look for gnomes. There’s a tranquil sadness to it, but it’s healing, it’s survivable. 

It’s one of those days when Ginny finds him in the garden after dinner and sits next to him. She smells nice, and he looks at her, not as Ron’s little sister and not as the girl he fancied, but as a fellow survivor, a DA leader. “Hi Ginny, how goes it?”

“Okay.” She looks up at the stars for a moment, and then back at him. “Harry, I wake up a lot at night…and sometimes Hermione isn’t there. Does she go up to Ron’s room?”

“Yeah, she does. Sometimes she has dreams, and just needs to know, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.” Ginny looks at him steadily. It’s not her fault they kept leaving her behind, not her fault she couldn’t come. She was underaged, too young, wasn’t old enough to lay her life down. Not that it stopped Colin.

His gut twists.

She continues, eyes averted. “I just wanted to say…if you need somewhere to go, you could come into my room. Or we could talk in the kitchen, whatever you like.” 

He’s confused for a second, and then he’s not. “Oh, uh.” His face goes red. “Gin, they’re not…we just talk.” 

She looks confused, buts nods anyway. “Right. Well, I hope you know you can talk to me, too. I know I wasn’t _there,_ but I did…I would have been. If I could have.” 

“I know. I know, and Ginny? Ginny, you’ve been great through all of this, you’ve been an incredible friend and I’m…” he can see her face going a little red, he knows this isn’t what she quite expected. He puts his hand on her arm. “I’m so, so grateful to you. For everything. It can’t have been easy.”

“Harry Potter.” She is not the little girl on the platform, the one who hid from him and was too shy to say anything. “I know it’s not time for these things. I just wanted you to know I’m here.”

She gets up then, and goes back into the kitchen. There’s a reckoning coming, a conversation they need to have, an understanding she hasn’t grasped.

Harry watches her go, pressing his lips together. He doesn’t think she understands, but he doesn’t quite understand either. All he knows is that when Hermione comes into their room at night, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the night of the two-month anniversary of Fred’s death, he goes out to the garden in the evening, desperate for the cool air as he escapes from the hot house. 

George is in the garden, he finds him sitting on the grass, legs extended out in front of him. Harry sits down next to him, and notices the half-full bottle of Firewiskey that normally sits in the cupboard leaned against George’s side. “How’s it going, George?”

George nods a little to himself. His face is alert, composed. “Going alright. Just thought I’d have a drink to Freddy.”

“Do you mind if I join you?” 

George grins, the rare sight flashing in the moonlight, and summons two glasses. “He’d like that, I reckon.” He pours it out, his hands tremble a bit and the liquid splashes into the grass slightly. Harry’s had Firewiskey all of once, to salute someone else who died for him. George raises his glass to the air. “To Fred.”

“To Fred, one of the best.” Harry tosses the drink back, not sure if it’s a lot for one go, and lets his body burn. It ripples through him, his nose burns a little, his eyes water and his throat chokes. He clenches his glass in his fist and sits in silence next to George, who keeps his eyes trained upwards at the stars. 

“He loved you, you know,” George whispers.

“I know.” Tears stream from the corner of Harry’s eyes. “I miss him.” 

Their silence is companionable, George pours another drink in both of their glasses and Harry pretends the sniffling sounds are their noses running from the alcohol. This one he drinks to George. His body has settled into a warm and tingling, almost numb feeling, when George stands up. “I think I’ll go to bed. Thanks, Harry.” He puts one hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Really.” 

He watches George go back into the house, illuminated by rooms that are still lit up. Up towards the top of the house, Ron’s light is on. He wonders if Ginny is up, waiting for him.

It feels nice to be numb. He’d never really seen the appeal before, but now it’s clear to him. It’s like calming draught, like sleeping potions, like a tonic for the chewing guilt that lives knotted in his stomach, displacing his organs and stealing his breath. 

He pours another glass, and drinks again. _Sirius._

Hands shaking, he tries to pour another. _Remus_. The liquid sloshes back on him, onto his hands and shirt and he gags a little this time, it’s too strong and his stomach is empty. He wants to continue, to go down his list of casualties but it’ll never end. Instead he tilts his head back, feeling the world pitch and roll beneath him as the tears stream, silent.

“Harry?” It’s Hermione, coming across the grass to him, bare feet and pajamas. “Harry, it’s getting late, are you okay?” 

His voice is choked up. “’Mione…”

“Oh Harry.” She stands over him, backlit by the moon, and then comes into a crouch. He can see the sadness in her features, dark circles and thin, pressed lips as she looks at him. She glances at the bottle of Firewiskey, and then back at him. “Oh, Harry…”

“I had a drink with George an’…” he feels like he’s slurring a bit more than he should be, but he’s not experienced enough to know. “I just starting….I just kept thinking, ‘Mione…about everything.” 

She cups his face in her hands, and he’s sure she can smell the Firewiskey on his breath. He waits for her to scold him, but it doesn’t come. Instead she sighs. “Harry, we need to talk about this. Not right now, but we need to talk about this, okay?” 

He keeps going, the words are coming now and it’s a little late to stop. “I can’t stop thinking…about everything I’ve done, and everyone I’ve hurt!” He grabs her wrist. “Hermione, look at me! Look at what I’ve done!” 

“Harry, you haven’t done anything wrong, come on, let’s go inside and I’ll make you some tea and-“ 

“I did this to you!” She freezes, and he continues. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed! You don’t sleep, Hermione, you don’t…you’re not…”

“I’m okay, Harry, I promise. We’re all going to be okay, just let me help you-“ She pulls, small hands and a tight grip around his arms and gets him into a standing position. He leans into her. She’s thin. She’s thinner than she should be, he and Ron have gained back at least some of their weight but she looks as bad as the day they arrived. It clearly still hurts her to move, and his weight is only making it worse as she limps across the lawn, breath strung tight in her teeth. “Harry, come on in with me, it’s all okay-“

“You’re not better, why aren’t you _better_?” He stops, drags her backwards into the moonlight so he can see her better, steadies himself with his hands on her shoulder. He thinks he might be shouting now, her eyes are wide. A rage is building, weeks of seeing her wince and look sick, the way Ginny says she throws up, the way she lies awake in their bed with her muscles locked and pretends it doesn’t hurt, avoids it when people ask and tries to charm herself better. She looks sick now. She looks like she's dying. “Why aren’t you better? Why is this still happening?”

“Harry-!” He loses his balance, falls backwards into the grass and drags her down with him. They’re nose to nose now, she’s on top of him and he’s shouting and she’s crying. “Harry, none of this is _your fault_! Harry look at me, please look at me, you’re drunk! You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Why won’t you tell me that it hurts?” He starts sobbing. “I know it hurts, I know I made this happen and you…why won’t you…Ron and I just…” he trails off. “Don’t let me have killed you too. I killed them. Not you too”

“Harry!” She presses her head into his chest and whimpers. “We love you, Harry just let us love you. It’s not your fault, it’s _not your fault_!” 

“I love you,” he sobs back and sits up enough to kiss her on top of her head. 

“We love _you_ , please Harry it’s not your fault.” She pulls her face out of his shirt. “Oh, Harry…”

He cries for a while, she holds him and lets him do it, purging it out of his system. He cries about Sirius, about Remus and Tonks, about making more orphans and about George and Fred, about Ginny. He cries about Ron, and he cries about her, about being in that dungeon, about the way she stills screams at night, about her parents and everything the three of them gave up.

“You have to let me…let us help.” He’s calming down now, but he holds tight to her arm. They’re lying nose to nose in the grass, he can see his glasses reflected in her eyes. “Ron knows too, he says we should tell his mum…You have to, Hermione, I did this…” He wipes his face with his sleeve, exhausted.

“No you didn’t. They’re dead, Harry, they’re gone.” His eyes are closed now, and he hears her voice grow concerned. “Harry, we should go in. Harry?” she shakes him, he opens his eyes. 

“I don’t want them to see,” he mumbles. 

She sits up next to him, he feels one of her hands on his head. “Ron will be down in a moment,” she replies, soothingly. “The light just went out in his room. It’s just Ron, yeah?” 

He has a crawling sense that he’s done something wrong. “Sorry, ‘Mione.”

“Shh.” Her hand feels cool on his face. 

“Hermione! Harry! Are you out here?” Ron sounds nervous as he comes close. “Merlin, you scared me, what are you doing-Harry!”

“Ron, he’s fine, he’s drunk…”

Ron’s crouching over him, bemused smile and all. “Blimey, Harry, at least _tell_ us when you decide to do something like this, yeah?”

“I was drinking to Fred with George,” Harry slurs in response. 

Ron’s face drops, grows somber. “Right. Well, George has been back for about an hour, I heard him talking to Mum. So I’m guessing you kept going too long.” He looks between the two of them. “You’ve been crying, what’s wrong?”

Harry gets it out first. “She’s not better, Ron, we have to do something!”

Ron looks at him, serious, and then to Hermione. “Hermione, what-“

“From the curse!”

“Harry, shh. Ron, I think we should all go in.”

“Right. Right, blimey Hermione, you’re in your pajamas, aren’t you cold?” She’s always cold these days, Harry can feel it right through her clothes. “Harry, can you walk?”

Harry’s eyes are closed again, and he can feel the two of them have some kind of silent facial conversation. Then Ron’s got him upright, half-carrying him, and before he knows it he’s lying on the familiar bed. 

“Here, Ron, take his glasses, I’ve got his shoes…” He can feel someone tugging at his laces, and then her cold hands against his ankle. 

They’re mumbling, he hears his name and ‘guilt’ and ‘talk about it’ and…

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he wakes up, his head feels like it’s splitting in two and his eyes feel itchy. He puts one hand over his eyes and groans.

“Hey there.” It’s Ron, who dims the light in the room quickly. “How you feeling?”

Harry squints at him. “Not so good.”

“FIrewiskey will do that to you,” Ron says wisely. “And you had a rough time of it, I gather.”

“Hermione? I…” he’s thinking, the cogs in his brain trying desperately to turn. “I think…I yelled at her Ron, is she okay?” She startles easily these days, he shouldn’t have raised his voice, he wasn’t thinking!

“She’s downstairs, she’s making some tea.” Ron looks serious now, Harry has is glasses now and he’s sipping the glass of water that’s conveniently nearby. “I think she’s as okay as she can be. Worried about you.”

“About me? Ron, she-“

“I know. We’re going to talk about it. I want her to talk to Mum, just…maybe she needs to see someone at St. Mungos? I don’t know how this kind of Dark stuff works…” He looks worried, and then stares back at Harry. “But we have to talk about you too.”

“I’m-“

“Harry.” Ron’s voice is low, almost warning. “I’m not thick. You can’t keep doing this. You scared her, and you scared me.” He takes Harry’s hand. “Look, I’m not saying I 'get it' and I can’t speak for everyone, but I reckon I knew my brother, Harry. This,” he gestures to Harry’s form, “this isn’t exactly what he had in mind.” 

“He shouldn’t have died, Ron.”

“No. He shouldn’t have.” Ron squeezes tight, almost too tight, it hurts. “Like Dobby. And Moody. And Dumbledore. But you can’t keep going on like this, Harry, you just can’t.” Ron sighs, deep and low, and then brightens. “And next time you want a drink, come get me, yeah?”

Harry smiles, the room lightens and gets easier, and then there’s a voice at the door. “Hey Harry, you’re up, I made tea.” Hermione sets the tray down on the camp bed and smiles at them both. 

“’Mione, I’m sorry I—”

She shakes her head at him, still smiling. “That’s what we’re here for, Harry. Someday you’ll get that through your head.”


End file.
